Chapter IX: Our Hero

THOUGH the name of John Moore is inscribed in letters of blood upon the deathless roll of our National Heroes, not so much is known about him by people in general as ought to be known. A few words as to his past life may not be out of place.

His father, a Scots physician of eminence, and also a successful author, had been appointed guardian and travelling-companion to the young Duke of Hamilton; and during "Jack's" boyhood, from the age of about ten to fifteen, the latter shared in the Continental travels of Dr. Moore and his ward. The doctor showed himself well fitted for the trust reposed in him, while his son from the first shone as a star in whatever circle he moved.

As a child John Moore was impulsive, hasty-tempered, and addicted to fighting; but he early learned self-control, and he was of a remarkably noble and generous disposition. By the age of fourteen he had become a fascinating young fellow, with a face of manly beauty, a daring temper, and a growing passion for the Army. Already he was a good linguist, and an adept at both riding and fencing. About this time, when in the course of their travels the three went to Vienna, the Emperor of Austria definitely offered to take the brilliant boy into his service, promising rapid promotion. But Moore was far too ardent a patriot to serve in any Army save that of his own country.

Dr. Moore, writing to his wife, described his son affectionately as "attentive, active, and brave," with "great good sense," and "the most beautiful and graceful boy imaginable;" adding, "Jack does not stoop as the Duke, but will have a good carriage; and though he is so very pretty, he has not the least tendency to be a coxcomb." Not long after, again he wrote with fatherly pride: "Never was a creature less spoiled than your son by all the great people who have caressed him, nor by all the uncommon fine situations he has been in. Though his manner is manly and noble, yet it is simple, and he assumes no airs. He is a charming youth. I wish you had him in your arms." Often must this most loving of mothers have wished the same, while her son was visiting half the Courts of Europe.

At the age of fifteen John became Ensign in the first Regiment, and a few months later he wrote of it as "one of the best regiments in the service ... There is no such thing as either drinking or gambling going on."

In 1777 he joined the Duke of Hamilton's regiment, and went out to Nova Scotia, where he had hard fighting, and gained much credit for personal prowess.

Before the close of 1783 peace was proclaimed between Great Britain and her four enemies, France, Spain, Holland, and the United States. Though Britain in those days had much less than half her present population, she was wont most cheerfully to engage in war with three or four nations at one and the same time, with no misgivings as to results.

The "Hamilton Regiment" being disbanded, Captain Moore, then twenty-three years old, went home to live with his parents on half-pay—the doctor by this time having a London practice. Moore studied hard, and was much in society, being a universal favourite. For a while he represented four Scots burghs in Parliament, though with a stipulation on his part that he should be free always to follow his own judgment. Moore never became in the narrower sense a party man. He had his own firm convictions, but he made friends on all sides. He fought for country, not for party.

In 1737 he once more gladly forsook civil for military duties. A year later, when he had rejoined his old regiment, the 51st, at Cork, a lifelong friendship sprang up between him and young Ensign Anderson. From that time the two were almost inseparable companions.

By this date Moore was known as a disciplinarian of unusual power, indulgent when he might safely be so, but inflexible in enforcing strict obedience. In an age when hard drinking was the fashion, he set his face like a flint against habits of intemperance among officers and men; and in an age when hard swearing was the "mode," strong expressions were never heard from his lips.

In 1792 he was ordered to Malta; and two years later, the peace having already ended, he was fighting the French in Corsica. Two or three years later still, he was made Brigadier-General by the King and the Duke of York, and was despatched to the West Indies, to serve under Abercromby. Sir Charles Stuart, while in command at Sicily, had become one of his intimate friends; and Abercromby now became another. The Duke of York and Pitt, from the time of his seat in Parliament, had been also among the long list of those warmly attached to him. Wherever Moore went he made friends for life.

It was at this period, when Moore was in the West Indies, that Ivor, then a subaltern, was first thrown under his captivating influence.

As usual, opportunities occurred for the display of individual bravery, in which Moore always shone; and in those days of hard fighting Ivor too had won laurels and promotion. Moore's influence over the younger officers was unrivalled; and many a one besides Ivor could look back, long after, with the knowledge that Moore had been the making of him, not only as a soldier but as a man. He shaped the characters of those with whom he had to do.

When St. Lucia had been wrested from the French, Moore was appointed Commandant and Governor of the Island: no easy post, for the blacks were fearfully barbarous in their methods of warfare. After being twice laid low by desperate attacks of yellow fever, ill though Moore could be spared, he had to be sent home.

He reached England a mere wreck of his former self; but little rest could in those days be allowed to Britain's gallant sons. He had a short time with those whom he loved best—with the mother especially, who was more to him than all the world beside. Then he was again ordered off; first to survey the eastern coast, in preparation for a threatened French invasion; afterward against Irish rebels in our unquiet sister isle. There he was prostrated anew by severe illness; there he made fresh friends; there once more he was found an invaluable helper by those in authority.

From Ireland he was ordered to Holland, where Abercromby stood imperatively in need of him. Ten thousand British troops had been sent, not to fight the Dutch, but to rescue them from the French yoke. On the 2nd of October, Moore, in the course of five hours' determined fighting, received two wounds. The first he ignored. The second felled him to the ground; and he would have been made prisoner, but that his men carried him off.

Ivor had accompanied him to Holland; and when, in the year 1800, the memorable Expedition to Egypt took place, Moore being still under his old commander, Abercromby, Ivor to his delight was still under Moore.

In a desperate action, on the 20th of March, Moore was a second time wounded in the leg, and as before he fought on, disregarding it. Abercromby too was shot in the thigh, and did not even mention the fact until the victory was won. The two friends never met again; for Abercromby died of his wound before Moore was able to go to him.

On the Peace of Amiens, Moore returned to England, in time to see his father, who was dying of old age and heart disease. The doctor's property was left between his wife and his six children; and Moore, not content with his mother's jointure, insisted on giving her an additional annuity.

Thus for years the name of John Moore had been incessantly before the British public, as the bravest of the brave; having become by this time the one name, before any other save that of Nelson, to which in the hour of peril his countrymen would turn.

What was it about this remarkable man which so riveted the hearts of others to him? Not the hearts of women only, though in truth his mother and sister idolised him. But vigorous men, stern soldiers, poured upon him a very passion of devotion. Denham Ivor was one, Jack Keene was another, among scores who looked upon John Moore as the living embodiment of all that a soldier and a gentleman ought to be, who loved him with unbounded ardour.

Buonaparte was worshipped, and was followed unto death by his soldiers, as a great captain. Moore, in addition to being so followed, was loved as a man, with that love which men only give to strong men, and not to many among them.

Wherever Moore turned, he found this love. His own brothers lavished it upon him. The Duke of Hamilton was his fervent friend for life. Anderson was to him as Jonathan to David. The three gallant Napiers, Charles, George, and William, adored him. His French servant, Francois, forgot home and country for his sake. Private soldiers were ready to rush upon certain death, if so they might save his life. Officers of rank, working with him, became almost inevitably his personal friends. The younger officers, under his command and training, so caught the infection of his high spirit, so responded to the influence of "their hero," that by dozens in after years they became prominent characters in the Army and leaders in the Nation. He has been truly called "a king among men."

No doubt his striking personal appearance, his indescribable charm of manner, perhaps too his brilliant and witty conversational powers, had something to do with his influence. But those things which really lay at the foundation of this extraordinary control over others were, mainly, the force of his character, the vivid enthusiasm of his purpose, the loftiness of his ideals, the simple grandeur of his life.

He had his enemies. No truly great man, who does not stoop to pander to the littlenesses of little men, ever fails to make some enemies. It could not be otherwise. Jealousy alone was sure to turn some against him. Moreover, his inviolable integrity, his blameless name, the splendid disdain with which he spurned everything false and mean—such qualities as these in Moore made some of a baser type turn from and even turn against one who was so infinitely more noble than themselves. But to men of a higher and purer stamp Moore was, as the Bayard of the Middle Ages had been to a former generation, a knight sans peur et sans reproche, a model upon which they might seek to shape themselves.

With Ivor, as with many another, to have known Moore was to have been imbued for life with new aims, new ideals, new views of duty, new thoughts of self-abnegation. Not so much from what John Moore might here or there have said, as from what he always was. To be under the man was in itself an inspiration.

Soon after Jack's departure for Sandgate, Admiral Peirce was called away on duty; and the Bryces decided to flit eastward. Mrs. Bryce, who loved sensation, talked of a visit to Folkestone, a tiny watering-place in those days, but within reach of Sandgate and of Moore's camp at Shorncliffe; and she offered to take Polly with her. Polly had kept up bravely under her separation from Ivor; but her pretty face had lost some of its colour, and the change might do her good. Polly of course was charmed. Who would not have been in her place? She would see Jack again, also Jack's Commander and England's Hero, General Moore. She would be in the thick of all that was going on, and would learn the news of the hour at first-hand.

So the Bryces and Polly went, and Molly was left behind with old Mrs. Fairbank. Nobody saw aught to object to in the arrangement; and Molly said nothing. But in later years she often looked back with a shudder to those autumn weeks.

She had none with her by whom she was understood, or to whom she could freely talk. She was cut off from her father, from her mother, from her twin, from Polly and from Jack. News from the prisoners arrived very seldom, and plenty of room was left for Molly's childish imagination to bring her misery.

Those were days of far severer imprisonment than these are; dungeons and chains being in constant use. Molly had heard enough, even in her short life, of fettered and half-starved captives, to cause her to be haunted by doleful visions as to the durance vile which Roy might have to endure.

In the daytime, when she was fully occupied, it was easier to take a cheerful view of life; but Molly's sufferings began with nightfall. Often she would start out of a restless sleep, fancying that she saw Roy in some noisome dungeon, with chains upon his wrists, while his grey eyes appealed to her pitifully for help. She would hide her face and sob; and in the midst of her woe would come the sound of the old watchman, shaking his rattle as he passed down the street, and singing out monotonously, "Past one o'clock, and a starlight night;" or, it might be, "Past three o'clock, and a rainy morning!"

Molly would listen, shivering, to the prolonged utterance; and sometimes she would wonder if the old watchman ever went to sleep. Then, as the voice died away, she would drop off herself; and when again she woke, she would be hugging her pillow, under a vague impression that she had Roy in her arms.

But of these troubled nights Molly said not a word to any human being. The only person whom she could have told was Polly, and Polly had gone away.